“Don’t be ridiculous. And don’t try to stop me.” The words trembled on Darby’s tongue.
Esme took one step back, pleading. “Let’s leave together, head to Hector’s for a malt. I have to explain it to you better, that’s all, and then you’ll understand.”
Darby slowly rose to her feet, wiping her hands on her skirt. “I’m meeting Sam at Grand Central. You’re welcome to come with me, but I’m not staying here in the city.”
“You can’t leave me!” Esme lunged for her, forgetting about the knife, which sliced into Darby’s arm. Blood oozed from the wound and she cried out in pain.
Esme froze for a moment, in shock at what she’d done, and finally crumpled, tears pouring down her face.
Darby stepped forward and held Esme’s face between her palms as blood trickled down the length of her forearm. “You need to get to safety, that’s the first order of business. Hide out at your cousin’s. I’ll write to you once Sam and I are situated and you can follow us.”
But instead of agreeing, Esme shook her head. “No.”
Time was running out. Darby had to get off the terrace, fast. Esme’s obstinacy had turned into madness.
“I’m sorry, Esme. Sam will be waiting for me.” Darby turned to go, but Esme came at her fast from behind, knocking the wind out of her. Darby managed to free one hand, and drove her elbow into Esme’s side. Esme staggered back against the balustrade, breathing heavily, her features contorted with rage.
“Darby?”
Darby whirled around to see Stella stepping out of the doorway onto the terrace, cigarette in hand. She wore a black cat costume, replete with a headband with pointed cat ears, and whiskers painted over her ivory cheeks. Behind her stood a pirate, who lifted up his eye patch to get a better look.
Stella stopped for a moment, frozen. “What’s going on?”
Darby opened her mouth to warn her, but Esme’s arm was around Darby’s neck before she could speak. Stella stayed near the door, lips in a wide O, her eyes green and huge.
“Esme, that’s enough.” Darby’s bellow, which came from a deep, dark place inside her, caught them both off guard. She whirled around, facing Esme.
At first, Darby thought Esme had hit her in the nose and broken it, that her nose was bleeding. Pain seared her forehead and cheek. Blinded by the gushing wound, Darby lashed out, flying at her friend, unaware how close they were to the edge.
For a moment Esme was suspended, hands waving in the air, clutching at nothing.
Then she was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
New York City, 2016
Outside, the city was eerily silent, as if in respect for Darby’s story rather than the lateness of the hour.
Rose and Jason sat quietly for a few moments once Darby finished speaking. Darby, not Esme. Relief flooded through Rose with the knowledge that Darby was the one who had survived. It was almost as if she’d come back from the dead.
Darby’s face was white, her eyes watery. “I’ll never forget the look she gave me as she fell backward. Shock, surprise. I didn’t realize we were so close to the edge. I didn’t mean to push her so hard.”
“You were only trying to protect yourself.” Rose’s words were inadequate, but she had to say something.
Darby took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “No. She was my dearest friend. And I killed her.”
“Why did you tell Sam you had died instead?”
“When I got back from the hospital, the book of spices was waiting for me. All that time, I figured Sam had shown up at Grand Central and left without me, wondering where I was. But when I read what he’d written inside, I knew he was in trouble. I didn’t want him coming back to the city to find me. Kalai’s men were all over. He would have been in terrible danger. And I couldn’t imagine going out to San Francisco and facing him, telling him what I had done. I was mortified at the thought of him seeing me like this. So I told him I had died. I offered to send the book of spices back. I knew how much it meant to him, but he didn’t want it.”
“And you kept it all these years.”
“I did. As a reminder of my shame. You see, Esme had trusted me, she’d loved me. She was a woman who struggled to rise above her station in life in spite of terrible prejudice. Not that she was perfect. She made a rash decision, not thinking of how it could affect all her friends, including Sam. But every night, when I close my eyes, I see her tipping over the side of the railing, reaching out for my hand as she falls. I look over the edge and watch her body slam into the ground. I relive it over and over.” Darby let out a sharp breath. “I couldn’t face Sam. I wasn’t brave enough to try again.”
“But it was an accident; she attacked you first.”
“Intentions are worthless to me. I pushed her and she fell to her death. After, Mrs. Eustis at the Barbizon took pity on me and let me stay on, and the Gibbs school arranged for the job at the button store. Pity, for my terrible wound. There I could work behind the scenes and stay out of view. Of course, as styles changed and hats went out of fashion, I knew I looked strange, traipsing around town in my veils. But by then, I didn’t care. My life was structured, orderly. I paid my rent on time each month. The world around me transformed dramatically, but I refused to. I couldn’t.”
Jason spoke quietly. “You never heard from your family again?”
“No. I wrote my mother, but she didn’t write back. I made a quiet life for myself, working, coming home. It’s more in my personality, to do the same thing day after day. Like Bird, here.”
“He does like a structured regimen,” said Rose.
“Thank you for watching over him while I was away.”
“I’m sorry I invaded your apartment. That was terrible of me.”
Darby’s shoulders tensed, but instead of scolding Rose as expected, she shrugged and let out a sigh. “It’s the building. I would probably have holed up in a broom closet at the Barbizon if they hadn’t offered me the chance to stay on after Esme died. By then, it had become my refuge, my sanctuary. I can understand the deep pull of the place. You can shelter here when the city feels too overwhelming to bear. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a living, breathing animal instead of an inanimate pile of stone and cement.”
The thought was strangely comforting. Rose spoke up. “Can I ask where you’ve been the past few weeks?”
Darby gave a mischievous smile. “Oui. Montreal.”
“Montreal?” Jason blinked a couple of times and he and Rose exchanged incredulous looks. Not their first guess.
“Yes.” Darby pointed to the black-and-white photo on the bookshelf. “The girl I consider my grandniece was performing at the festival they hold there each year. Her international debut.”
Rose stood and took the photo down. “The one who calls you Tía. I thought this was a photo of Esme.”
“No, no. Alba loves the old black-and-white studio portraits from the fifties; she insisted on this for her professional photo. My influence, I’m proud to say. A head shot, they called it.” She wiggled her fingers at Rose, who handed her the photo. Darby stared at it, smiling, and for a moment, Rose got the sense of what she might have looked like without the scar tissue. Her face was radiant, underneath the damage.
“Looks just like Esme,” Darby said. “We’re not related, but she calls me Auntie anyway, dear girl. Alba is the granddaughter of Esme’s sister. She’d invited me to hear her sing in Canada and initially I said no, too far for an old lady like me to go. But when you showed up at my door, I figured it was a good time to hit the road, as they say. You lived in the building, I knew there would be no avoiding you. So I flew up and she took great care of me. I had the best seats, was brought backstage, went out for drinks after the gig with the band. Treated like royalty. She’s a good girl.”